Opera High
by StitchGrl
Summary: Erik & Christine 2012. High school is tough and so is young love. Esp with these two crazy kids.
1. Chapter 1

Thanks to Roguecatwoman for the inspiration ;-)

Opera High

Christine was super excited. Why? Because first day of school and she already had chorus on her schedule. Sixth period.

Awesome. Of course that meant 5 periods to go--not so awesome, but she can deal with it.

Christine sat down in first period English and looked around at her peers.

"Boo!" someone shoved her from behind.

"Joe, What the heck?" Chrisine turned and saw Joe Buquet, class prankster, suffering from the giggles.

"Haha! Scared ya!" he pointed and laughed. "Betcha thought I was a ghost!"

Christine felt her face get hot, "Did not! I don't believe in ghosts and I wasn't scared. I was startled."

"Whatever scared-y pants!"

"Joseph, that's enough." Came the stern voice from the front of the class. "Sit back down."

Christine made a face at him as he stuck his hands in his overall pockets and slouched away.

Just then, Principal L walked in the room. Principal L was a stout man with a wide mustache, eye glass, and a warbly voice. He's well known to have a big mystery fascination, which explains why he made everyone dress up as Clue characters for the dance last year. He was imaginatively weird, but a nice guy.

"Hello class," He said as he walked in with someone lingering behind him. "For most of you, today is the first day of school, but for our new student, this is the first day of school at Opera High. Right, Erik?"

The principal moved aside to reveal a tall, dark, thin boy in a mask standing behind him. There was an awkward pause and Principal L continued, "He has been home schooled until now, so be kind." The emphasis he put on the words "be kind" was unmistakable.

With that, he left, and the whole class, with the exception of Mrs. Giry, stared in silence.

The new boy didn't seem to notice. Everyone watched as he moved silently to the back of the class. Literally, they couldn't hear his footsteps. It was almost as eerie as the piece of black cloth that covered his face. And he was tall. About six feet, Christine estimated. Maybe Six-two, six-three. But very well proportioned. He wore a crisp, white button-down shirt and black slacks. _Chic_, Christine thought.

"Pssst Chris!" Christine looked to her right. Meg flipped her blonde ponytail to the side prettily, "Caaa--reepy!" she rolled her eyes towards Erik's direction. "But kinda hot!"

Christine giggled.

"You know what else is kinda hot?" Meg's eyes rolled to the other side. Christine's gaze followed.

Raoul DeChagny, otherwise known as Raoul The-Shag-Me, Opera High's All-star quarterback. Not really built like one, but he was fast. Ridiculously good-looking, incredibly popular, and disgustingly rich. He looked up at Christine, but she quickly looked away.

It's obvious why they called him The-Shag-Me. Every girl wanted to jump his bones except for Christine because she was too involved in her music. She'd known him all her life but never spoke a word to him. His parents hired her dad to tune their piano once and Christine tagged along. She ended up watching Mr. Shag-Me play "The Prince of Persia" for two hours, and they didn't speak a word. Two hours to tune a bunch of instruments he didn't play.

"He's staring at you!" Meg whispered.

"Who?"

"Shag-Me."

"Oh."

Meg rolled her eyes, "You should smile back!"

"Checking out his reflection in the window isn't the same as staring at me."

Meg rolled her eyes again. "Oh, get off your high horse!"

"Christine Daaé!"

Mrs. Giry's chalkboard pointer slammed onto Christine's desk. _Why did she sit in the front again?_

"Yes, Mrs. Giry?"

"Concentrate, girl!"

"Yes, ma'am."

Meg giggled.

Wham! The stick hit Meg's desk and she jumped. "You too Meg Giry."

Meg nodded three times too quickly.

"Now Erik…" Mrs. Giry looked down at her attendance sheet. "Erik Perrault. Please summarize the assigned summer reading for the class."

There was a pause.

"Erik Perrault, are you in this class?"

"Yes ma'am."

Unified gasp. That was undeniably. The sexiest voice. Christine. _Had. Ever. Heard._

Mrs. Giry was taken aback as well, but she quickly recovered. "Did you read the Great Gatsby?"

"Yes ma'am."

"Then please outline the story in brief for us, Mr. Perrault."

Another pause.

"The story is about a poor man named Gatsby who earns a lot of money to please a rich woman named Daisy. Despite being in love with him, Daisy is too selfish and careless to leave her brutish, cheating husband for Gatsby. When she is finally forced to choose between the two men, she runs away with her husband and forgets Gatsby ever existed. She leaves Gatsby to die. Which he does. Alone."

How morbid, Christine frowned.

"Very good Mr. Perrault." Mrs. Giry tapped Christine's desk lightly. "Ms. Daaé, do you agree with Mr. Perrault?"

"Um, not entirely."

"Oh? What is your take on it then?"

"Well, while Mr. Perrault's account is somewhat accurate, his pins Gatsby's downfall on Daisy, and I think Gatsby should take responsibility for his own actions."

"Please explain."

"Well Gatsby and Daisy were in love before she got married to Tom, that's true. But Gatsby knew from the beginning what Daisy was rich and spoiled and he accepted that. When he comes back, he tries to win her affections by disguising himself as something he's not. He made a futile attempt to live up to her impossible standards. This could have all been avoided if he chose to give her up."

"Interesting," Mrs. Giry walked towards the back of the class. "And Mr. Perrault, any response?"

There was another long pause.

"None of use can choose who we will love."

Christine turned around and looked him in the eyes. Gold eyes, like a cat's, bored right into hers. Christine felt a chill. She kept reminding herself that he was talking about the book. But she was unnerved by first his voice then his eyes and sweat was forming at her brow. There was something unsettling about that boy and she needed to get as far away as possible.

The bell rang, and it broke the spell.

Christine picked up her bookbag and quickly shuffled through the door.

"Hey, Chris, wait up!" Meg ran up next to her, still bouncing and gleeful. "Wow, that was kinda intense…I thought you guys were going to go at it and then make out!"

Christine gave her friend a square look. "Oh, really?"

"Well, I mean, maybe he's really _hot_ under that mask. Cept he's, like, a total nerd, cuz who's actually DOES their summer reading?"

Christine stopped. "I'm deeply insulted."

"Right," Meg laughed, "But you're a self-professed nerd. And you're my buddy, so you get a free pass."

Christine grinned and linked arms with her friend. "So…what do you suppose is under that thing?"

"Besides pure sex?"

Christine smacked her friend's arm. "Seriously!"

"I don't know," Meg shrugged, "Maybe he has a skin disease or something."

"That's what I was thinking too...except what skin disease only covers your face?"

"A _facial_ skin disease," Meg answered.

Christine was about to smack her friend's arm again when she heard her name.

"Hey, Christine, Meg – hold up!"

Meg and Christine turned around.

"You dropped this."

Raoul The-Shag-Me ran up to them and placed something in Christine's hand. She looked down. Her father's red scarf. She liked wearing it because it was like a wrap on her and kept her warm. It must have fallen out of her bag when she was in such a hurry to get out of class.

"Thanks," Christine smiled.

"Sure," he grinned a wide, charming grin, and his blue eyes twinkled. "I just didn't want it to get trampled in the hallway."

"Yeah, that's nice of you, thanks," She could hear her smile through her words.

Meg just stood here, drooling and mouthing "You know my name?"

"Ok, well, I gotta run to my next class so, see you later?"

"K, thanks again!" Christine waved at him as he walked away. Suddenly he stopped and turned to her, "Hey, thank your pops for fixing my piano for me, will you? It sounds so much better now. Next time, you should come over again."

"Yeah, sure." She was definitely blushing now.

He grinned impossibly sweetly again and walked away.

Meg put her hands on her hips. "You should drop your my scarves more often. Shag-me now or shag-me later."

Christine smiled. "You read way too many romance novels."

"I just watch Drew Barrymore movies."

Christine folded the scarf and tucked it neatly into her bag. She and Meg turned to leave when there was light tap on her shoulder.

Their eyes met.

"You dropped this."


	2. Chapter 2

Thank you reviewers! Lol, I am NOT for modern fics either -- trust me. But your wonderful response proves that hey, you never know if you can do a genre unless you dabble in it, right? We all love Phantom, and that's what counts. 1889, or 2009, Erik is still my #1.

* * *

Their eyes met.

Erik held out a tattered copy of "The Lost Diaries of Don Juan" to Christine Daaé, the girl who argued too fervently with him in class. She turned a scarlet red and took the book from him hastily, muttering "Thanks," before giving him an embarrassed smile.

She was undoubtedly the prettiest girl Erik had ever seen. She had natural, sunshine blonde hair and ice blue eyes. Erik never thought he'd be attracted to the blonde type, but he was wrong. There was nothing typically blonde about this girl. She was gorgeous, she liked reading about Don Juan (albeit it was from a trashy novel), and she was _smart_, something very hard to come by nowadays. She wasn't too waifish, or voluptuous, or tall or short. In fact, she'd probably fit perfectly in—

"Young man, are you planning on joining our class?"

It was over before it began.

A stiff, stuffy lookin man in a tweed suit stood against the door of classroom 662 and tapped his huge automated stopwatch. "Class starts in 1.35679 minutes. And time is _money_."

Christine and her friend quickly walked away.

Erik looked down at his schedule. Second Period: Firmin, Law. He inwardly groaned. Erik didn't care for law. The thought of the government installing "rules" upon people who were going to follow them out of fear was completely bogus to him. If humans were really evil and wanted to kill each other, the "law" isn't going to stop them. He could think of some god-awful evil people in high places breaking the law of human decency right about now…

Erik sat at the back of the class again. He didn't notice the people whispering about him and he didn't care.

"Hey," A male voice next to him said. Erik looked to his right. Olive skinned, young, Persian-looking boy. "Do you have a piece of paper? I forgot to bring my notebook."

Erik reached into his bag and pulled out his notebook. He ripped out several sheets and handed it to the kid. He looked at the kid's empty desk and held out his pen. "Need a pen too?"

The boy nodded sheepishly. "Yeah." He rubbed the back of his head. "Thanks."

Erik turned back to the teacher, who'd already begun writing on the board.

"I'm Nadir." The boy said and extended his hand.

Erik looked at the boy's hand and looked back at the board.

Nadir retrieved his hand, unfazed. "What's your name?"

Erik scribbled his name impatiently on his notebook.

"E—wik? _Ewik_, that's a cool name."

"It's E-r-i-k." Erik rewrote his name, double underlined it, and shot Nadir and look of disapproval. He motioned towards the teacher. "Class started."

Nadir seemed to like the idea of scribbling, and started writing furiously on the sheets of paper Erik gave him. He pushed them towards Erik when he was done.

_:I read the whole text already. I __**love**__ law. I'm going to be a cop._

…_:Great..._ Erik wrote.

_:What about you? Do you like law?_

Erik shook his head. Nadir looked disappointed.

_:What do you like?_

Erik drew some music notes on his notebook and Nadir grinned.

_:Music?_

Erik shrugged but didn't shake his head.

_:Mr. Reyer is the chorus teacher here. He holds auditions for chamber choir the beginning of every school year. He's a bit of a prick, but he's really good at getting OG to the chamber choir finals._

…_:OG?..._

_:Opera Garnier High. Garnier was the guy who built this school, but something went wrong when someone sued him for putting his name on the school design. Supposedly he used hired help and didn't credit the guy. So we're just Opera High now._

Erik stifled a laugh.

_:So you gonna try out?_

…_:Maybe…_

_:You should. All the hot girls are in chamber choir. _

…_:……_

_:Emmy Rossum. Carlotta Guidicelli. Meg Giry. Christine Daaé. Did I get them all? I think so…_

…_:I had Christine Daaé in my last class… _

_:Yeah, she's nerdy hot. Emmy is more my type, brunette. But she's kinda of stuck up._

…_:Can they sing?_

_:Emmy sang in the children's choir at the Met when she was twelve or something. That's all she talks about but no-one really cares._

…_:And Christine?_

_:I'm not one to say. But if she's in Chamber Choir, she's definitely good. So you going to try out? You might have to remove that mask if you don't want to scare the bejeezus out of people._

…_:If I remove it, then I will._

_:LOL! You're funny, Ewik._

…_:E-R-I-K._

_:Sorry. Anyway, we can study for this class together. I love sharing my knowledge of law with other people._

Erik stifled another laugh.

"Boys, is there something funny going on here?"

"No, Mr. Firmin," Nadir said quickly as he covered his notebook with his sleeve.

Mr. Firmin didn't look convinced. "Ok, then, you sir—" he motioned towards Erik, "Please explain what three items the Lady Justitia is known for?"

Nadir looked horrified. There was no way his masked friend had been paying attention and being embarrassed in Mr. Firmin's class was not a small deal. Mr. Firmin was famous for making you run laps around the football field if you got an answer wrong. One lap for every minute of hesitation. Because, as he said, time is money.

"Certainly, Sir," Erik said calmly. "Her sword symbolizes the coercive power of the court, the scales represent weighing the competing claims, and the blindfold indicates that she bases her decision only on the merits of the case, blind to the rank, status, virtues and vices of the litigants."

Mr. Firmin frowned, seemingly disappointed that he was struck with the right answer. "Can you name the location of a few of her statues, Mr. – What's your name?"

"Erik, Sir," came the soft reply, "and the locations that I know of where her Lady is located are Berne, Switzerland, Olomouc, Czech Republic, Frankfurt, Germany, and the Supreme Court of Canada."

Mr. Firmin's frown deepened. He didn't like being beaten as his own game, but just as Nadir thought he was going to pop another question, Mr. Firmin's frown dissipated and he turned to the rest of the class. "All right, then. I'm about to give tonight's assignment; please have your pens ready."

Nadir waited until they were in the hallway to approach Erik.

"I thought you said you didn't _like_ law."

"I don't." Erik replied, and threw his bag over his shoulder. He started to walk away.

"Hey!" Nadir caught his arm. "I have next period free. Do you want me to show you to your next class?"

Erik pulled his crumpled schedule out of his pocket. "Monsieur André, French. Room 663."

"Oh! That's like, on the other side of the school."

"Doesn't make any sense when we just came out of 662."

"I know, but 662 marks the end of the east wing. 663 starts at the west wing, which is across the football field. I'll walk with you."

Erik shrugged. "Why not. Thanks."

They walked into the sun and passed the bleachers where the football players practiced and the cheerleaders were rehearsing. Erik noted that the cheerleaders were all petite with curly hair and squeaky voices. They didn't yell very loud.

"The Corpse Cheerleaders," Nadir said. "We call them corpse because they're all too frail to jump up and down, but they do it anyway."

When the girls saw Erik walking by, their eyes widened, and they huddled together indiscreetly and whispered.

"Don't mind them," Nadir remarked, "They love to gossip." Erik didn't respond but he saw a blonde haired, fragile-built football player run across the field. He remembered that boy from English class. As the boy ran across the field, he waved at the cheerleaders who squealed loudly in response.

"That's Raoul DeChagny, the quarterback," Nadir said. "Big hit with the ladies."

Erik zoomed in on a darker, taller built football player standing with his arms folded next to Raoul. "And him?"

"That's his brother, Phillipe. He's much more serious—can you tell? Rumor has it that whoever Raoul dates, Phillipe has to approve. He's like the gloomy chaperone, and Raoul has to listen cuz his dad put Phillipe in charge."

Erik saw Phillipe give him a cold stare and returned the favor.

A whistle sounded and all the cheerleaders got back into position.

"Ok pay attention!" An angry voice yelled. "First position!"

The girls all put their hands out to their sides in the "ohm" position.

"Breathe in! Breathe out! NOW!"

"_What_ _is that_?" Erik watched in amusement as the owner of that angry voice flung his hands absently in the air. The man had long, grayish hair, droopy eyes, and lines around his mouth. He was most definitely over his sixties but wore an open black shirt and a necklace made of straw around his overtanned neck. Erik watched in horror as the man lead the cheerleaders into yoga poses.

"Oh," Nadir laughed. "That's Coach Schumacher. He is, by far, the weirdest old guy we have in the school. He's head of the drama department too. He couldn't make up his mind between cheering or theatre, so he came to opera high to teach. He has a lot of … flair."

Coach Schumacher saw the boys walk by and winked at them.

Erik had to look away. "My IQ just dropped 40 points."

When they got to door 663, Erik turned to Nadir and said "Thanks." It was hard to show his appreciation with the mask in the way, but Nadir smiled back and patted Erik on the shoulder.

"No prob. Just come find me in the caf at lunch time. I'm always in the second table on the left." He suddenly looked embarrassed. "Make sure you look for me, ok? I'll be sitting alone."

Erik smiled behind the mask again once he recognized the reason behind Nadir's over-eagerness. He couldn't blame him.

"Daroga."

"What's that?"

"Daroga means chief-of-police in Persian. You're Persian, I'm assuming, and you want to be a cop. I think I'll call you that."

Nadir grinned from ear to ear. "That is the coolest name ever. I'll take it!"

They said their goodbyes, and Erik walked into French class. Monsieur André was standing in the front of the class scribbling "bonjour, mes étudiants!" on the chalkboard.

Erik was walking towards the back of the class when someone tugged lightly at his shirt.

"Hey."

He looked down to the pair of warm blue eyes he'd seen earlier. Christine Daaé's rosy lips curled into a small smile. "You can sit by me."

Erik's eyes locked on hers and for a moment he couldn't speak. He heart felt like it was palpitating out of his shirt. Something about this girl was special, and he couldn't pinpoint it. Sure, she was beautiful, but there was something else hidden in her eyes. When she looked at him, she seemed to be looking through him. He felt as if she was reading his body language with a gaze and a smirk.

Erik sat down next to her.

"Hi," He said.

Christine's smile widened. "Hi."


	3. Chapter 3

"Hi," He said.

* * *

Christine's smile widened. "Hi."

"Hiiiiiiiiii…." A third voice cut in. It dipped low, like the kind of whistle a guy makes when he sees a hot girl walking down the street.

Erik and Christine looked up.

A little Asian girl in pig-tails looked Erik up and down.

She was about 5 feet tall, petite framed, with green eyeshadow all around her spidery lashes and shimmer gloss layered on her lips. She was wearing a pound of blush accessorized with a big big smile. She was in Christine's grade but she looked twelve.

"I'm Gracie. Gracie-Lily Mary Sue." She shoved an infant's hand at Erik, forcing him to shake it. "I'm very glad to meet you."

Christine rolled her eyes. Gracie was by far, the biggest flirt in school. Meg was bad, but Meg never follows through. Gracie _always_ followed through because she had no shame, and she was proud of it.

Erik took her hand reluctantly and half-assedly shook it. "Erik." He said politely.

"Eric!! What a kewl mask you're wearing!"

Erik didn't seem to make a connection between the word "kewl" and "mask."

"Where do you come from Eric?" Gracie plopped down in the chair in front of Erik's desk and threw her book-bag loudly on the ground. This new boy was way _way_ too intriguing for her to turn away. A perfect distraction from this incredibly pointless class.

"France."

"Whoa!" Gracie's eyes widened. "That is so _kewl! _Are your parents typical Frenchies? Do they eat snails and drink wine and look as good in slacks as you do?"

"None of those things," Erik replied.

"Oh," Grace stuck out her lower lip. "I thought that's what Frenchie's do. What do they do then?"

Erik didn't breathe. "They're dead."

Christine wanted to bang her head against her desk. If suspension weren't inevitable, she would use Gracie's head instead.

"Oh!!" Gracie drew a tear down her face with her finger. "Sadness. I'm sowee."

Christine felt the person next to her, who was so alive only a moment ago, physically and mentally withdraw. Something reptilian happened to him. Like turtle hiding in his shell when he senses a foreigner, Erik shrunk inward. And now she saw and felt nothing.

"Well, Eric, I hope you're not mad. You're not mad, riiiight?? I can make it up to you…I'll help you with French. _Parce que je _speak French_ tres bien!_"

"That won't be necessary," Erik said emotionlessly. "But thank—" Before he could finish, Gracie wrapped her little hand on his bicep.

"No, really. _I can help you_." Gracie gasped loudly and slid her hand slowly down his arm.

Christine couldn't see behind that mask, but she imagined Erik blushing. She felt her own face grow hot from her cheeks to her ears. She subconsciously began to clench her fists, and then without warning, she shot up from her chair and excused herself from class.

"Je m'excuse, Monsieur André," She said to the professor, "I think I'm going to be sick." She wasn't exactly lying.

Christine walked angrily down the hallway, but halfway down, she began to run. She wasn't sure why she was reacting this way. It wasn't like her to be dramatic. And Gracie Lily Mary Sue was NOT worth her time. No, it wasn't Gracie-Lily Mary Sue's's fault—it was her hormones acting up. Blame it on the hormones.

"Christine! Wait."

She halted. Christine spun around and saw Erik walking towards her. He seemed taller than ever. He quickened his pace, but even as he got closer, his footsteps made no sound. _Who are you_? she thought.

"Erik," he said, extending his hand. She looked down at it, hesitated a second too long, he withdrew it, but she caught it before it was too late. His hand was ice cold.

"Christine." She was brave, and didn't let go. Their first moment of contact was like an electric shock. She felt like she was touching her soulmate or something (if she believed that sort of thing.) He wrapped his fingers tightly around her hands and she did the same to him. _Total_ _lust at first sight moment_.

"Are you really sick?" He looked at her with genuine concern.

"It was the classroom," She replied softly. "It got a little stuffy."

"I agree." His eyes never left hers.

"What'd you tell Monsieur André?"

"I wanted to make sure you made it to the Nurse's office."

"And he let you?"

"I asked nicely." He shrugged, and when she didn't seem convinced, he added, "In French."

Christine smiled. "Nice job."

He was still grasping her hand, but she didn't mind.

"You left Gracie all by herself." Christine couldn't help herself, really.

He looked at her with a genuine question mark in his eyes. "Gracie who?"

Her lip twitched.

Christine heard footsteps coming towards them. In the corner of her eye, she saw Nadir Khan strolling out of the library. Erik saw him too, but as soon as Nadir saw them, Erik pulled Christine around the corner away from view. His pull was strong, and Christine followed suit. He pulled her down three flights of stairs together to to the entrance of the basement gymnasium. It was dark there they were suddenly very alone.

Erik whispered, "I wanted to make sure you were ok."

"Right," she could barely speak. His face was so close to hers, but she still had to look up at him. She imagined shifting her body weight but in reality didn't move at all.

"You have 6 period Chorus, right?"

"Yeah. How'd you know?" She titled her head to the side.

"Skip it."

Christine let go of his hand. "What?"

He leaned in a little closer. "Meet me in the base-recital room."

Christine was taken aback. "That room is locked. Only Mr. Reyer has the key. And aren't you _new_ to this school? How do you know about the base--"

Erik leaned in as if he was about to kiss her, but instead brushed an invisible piece of hair out of her face. His fingertips made a cool streak down her skin. "Sixth period."

Christine felt compelled to say yes. She'd only ditched class once when she needed extra practice for her solo audition for chamber choir. But that was once… She wanted to ask him what he wanted to show her, but she decided against it. He was really good at communicating what to and what not to say just by looking at her. And he was giving her the shivas in all the right places.

She smiled. "Fine. But it better be good."

She thought he smiled. He pulled himself away from her and started to walk away. Christine couldn't keep herself from grabbing onto his arm. He looked down at her hand.

Now she knew why Gracie Sue was groping his biceps. She could feel his veins buried directly beneath his skin, floating atop the lean muscle in his arm…they made a lightening trail down his arm, and Christine's fingers lingered downwards.

Erik pried her fingers gently from his arm, and he placed her hand back at her side.

"Don't forget. Sixth period," he said softly.

Christine watched him walk away. She didn't know how or why, but she knew he was going to be a big part of her life somehow. She wasn't sure for better or for worse.


	4. Chapter 4

Ok, I thought it would be fun for you readers to pick out all the little innuendos and references I make in each chapter. I should have started doing this from chapter one -- but I wonder if some of you can point them all out.

For example, Chapter 2 -- Nadir tells Erik that class 663 is in the west wing. "West Wing" is the forbidden section of the tower in Beauty & the Beast. B&B equals Phantom, etc. Whoever gets them all, will get a shout-out in the upcoming chapter.

This is like "Where's Waldo", and like Elle Woods would say, "But funner!"

Knock yourselves out!

* * *

Christine liked psychology. It was too bad she couldn't concentrate when all she could think about was a boy who she'd only met a few minutes ago. She sat down, pulled her hair up into a ponytail, and put on her glasses. She was going to be studious no matter what because she was a _good girl dammit_.

The psych teacher was a woman in her late fifties with short, ash-grey blonde hair and a warm smile.

"Hello class, I'm Ms. Kay. I live with my husband and two children in Cheshire." She laughed like she found it amusing, "And that's all the personal information that you're going to get out of me!"

She walked around the table and put her fingers together, forming the shape of a chapel with her hands. "Everyone take out a piece of paper please."

An audible grown escaped everyone's throats.

"Yes, I know. We must all be prepared for the challenge of psychology, whether it is at a party, while writing a book, or in the classroom. I want you to describe the Oedipus Complex in one succinct paragraph."

Christine knew the answer and started writing right away. She suddenly had the feeling that someone was looking over her shoulder, and she turned around to see Luciana Lamento inconspicuously peering at her paper.

"Hey!" Christine frowned at the little Italian. "What do you think you're doing?"

"Copying your answer—duh!" Luciana gave a soft retort. She had long, thick black hair, lots of black lashes that framed her black eyes, and thick, black eyebrows. A whole lotta black against her fair skin. "Are you going to let me? Or do I have to tell Daddy?"

Luciana's father, Giovanni Lamento, was a rich architect who owned enough stock to buy three hundred Opera High's. There was really nothing too expensive or impossible to get for Luciana and that included nice clothes, boys, and good grades. Luciana had a little hand in things herself.

"Well, with the wrongness of cheating aside," Christine said, "Don't you think Ms. Kay is going to notice that your answer is exactly the same as mine?"

"It's the same question. Of course the answers are going to be the same." Luciana batted her luscious lashes and stuck out her lip, "Please, Christina—I'll pay you for it."

"I hate the name Christina," Christine motioned toward the brunette sitting to the right of Luciana who was furiously writing in on her paper. "Why don't you ask Emmy? She's closer to your desk."

"As_ if._" Luciana made a face. "If I want someone to spread rumors that I'm stupid and had to copy off of a 'star singer' I'll ask Carlotta. Emmy's going to use my name to get an interview in the _Opera Times_ just so her picture would be on the front page." She looked at Christine seriously and added, "cuz you know she'll do that."

"I'm sitting right next to you!" Emmy had stopped writing. She crossed her red pant-legs and folded her arms in front of her. Her mouth was halfway open (as it always was). "You are so rude."

"Bite me." Luciana's eyes twinkled mischievously.

Student Vlad, who had been listening in behind Luciana, snickered.

"I don't bite," Emmy spat at Luciana disdainfully, "That's beneath me!"

"Ok, Ms. Holier-than-thou. Get over yourself." Luciana turned back at Christine and smiled prettily. "Please? Just this once?"

"Ms. Kay? I'm sorry to interrupt, but there was a glitch in my schedule. I belong in this class."

At that voice, all three ladies looked up.

_Erik. _Christine fidgeted in her chair. _How many classes do we share? _He looked at her with his blazing eyes, and she smiled. As he walked by their desks, Emmy jabbed Luciana who jabbed Christine.

"Who's that?"

Christine shrugged. "I'm not sure." It was the truth.

Emmy's gape widened further. She suddenly had this fantastic view that beneath the mask there lay a sunburned hottie who would be the perfect arm candy to drive her to super-stardom. Luciana saw a similar vision of herself in a Versace wedding dressed getting married in Sicily to a handsome count who looked and sounded exactly like who just walked through the door. Emmy looked at Luciana, Luciana looked at Emmy, and the sisterhood of the traveling phans was born.

"Why did he look at you like that?" Luciana poked Christine again.

Christine shifted again in her chair. "He wasn't looking at me."

"Liar, he so was!" Luciana said with her eyes still fixated on him. "It figures that you would be a total slut."

"Excuse me?" Christine lifted an eyebrow and removed her glasses. "Want to look me in the face and say that again?"

"Ladies, remember, above all – self control." Ms Kay must have heard them arguing a while ago but she played along in amusement. "Remember that your pent-up animosity towards each other could actually be a metaphor for the veiled admiration that you have for each other's unique, lovely talents. Shooting venomous looks at one another is not going to satiate your need to express yourself."

Christine and Luciana looked utterly confused.

"So what do you know about him?" Luciana whispered as Ms. Kay walked away.

"I don't KNOW him," Christine replied irritably. "We just met last period!"

"Oh, so you _have_ met," Luciana's said suspiciously. "That's why he's looking at you."

Christine quickly finished writing her paragraph and turned back to Luciana. "Maybe he was looking at _you_."

Luciana seemed satisfied with that suggestion. "You're right." She flipped her hair. "Maybe he was. And hey—I wasn't finished copying your answer."

Christine didn't reply.

"I heard," Emmy chimed in, "That he's adopted. He lives in this huge mansion in the secluded hills, and he's got his own personal butler."

Christine almost laughed. "Bruce Wayne doesn't wear a mask, ok?"

"Yeah, but _Batman_ does." Luciana dreamily looked back at Erik, who was listening intently to the teacher and completely ignorant of the girls' fawning over him.

"He's definitely rich. Look at his shoes." Emmy pointed out, "Ferragamo."

"Bruce Wayne already goes to this school," Christine said. "Raoul DeChagny, remember?"

The girls grinned at the mention of Raoul's name.

"Shag-Me," they hummed.

"All right, I'm separating you three." Ms. Kay stood over the girls. "Luciana, go sit in that seat in the back. Next to our new student."

Luciana could not have bolted out of her chair faster.

Christine didn't look at them. She's had enough drama since first period to keep her mind frazzled for a week. She tried really hard to focus on what their discussion of _The_ _Interpretation of Dreams._

They were doing well until at the last minute of class, when a high pitched yelp came from the back of the room.

Luciana was holding her hands over her mouth and her eyes were wide with horror. She turned whiter than her natural color (very very white) and her eyes rolled to the back of her head. She was about to hit the floor but Ubaldo Piangi caught her as she fell back.

"Erik," Ms. Kay gasped, "What happened?"

"She fell."

Ms. Kay quickly had Piangi rush her to the nurse's office.

Christine studied Erik, and he looked calm as ever. He went back to copying what was on the board and didn't look up again.

The bell rang just in time for Ubaldo to race back to class to get his books. He was a chubby, short kid, and all that running caused him to sweat and pant like he just gave birth. Christine met him at the door. "Did she tell you what happened?"

Ubaldo shook his head. "No (gasp) she was out. Damn, I'm winded."

"Did you hear anything?"

"Oh yeah (gasp), when she was conscious, (gasp) she wouldn't shut up. All I heard the entire class was 'take off your mask. Take off your mask!'"

"And?"

"And then towards the end (gasp) I wasn't paying a attention. But she shut up for a second. And when I looked up, she was falling outta her chair."

Christine thanked Ubaldo, but not before a brute hand struck him on the shoulder and a thick voice cried out, "You traitor!! How dare you carry that little tramp out?"

"What?" Ubaldo caught Carlotta's Giudicelli hand. "Ms. Kay made me do it!"

"Yeah right. I saw the way you were looking at her." Carlotta spat angrily. "You and I are _so_ over."

"Sorry, I gotta go, Christine," Ubaldo grabbed his books and ran after Carlotta, yelling "Carla—(gasp) Wait! I'm sorry!"

Christine saw that everyone had gone…and it was time for lunch. She wasn't very hungry. What just happened didn't sit well with her, no matter how much she despised the little Italian. She was no detective, but she knew he had something to do with it. Soon, she would confront him. Christine looked at her watch. Very soon.


	5. Chapter 5

As a **thank you** because you've been so patient, here's an extra long one for you all.

Erik and Christine, Take 2.

––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

Christine had never dreaded lunch before.

She entered the lunch room with her bookbag gripped tightly in her hand and set it next to Meg, who was always late to each period except for lunch, and had splayed two chicken patties, two fries, one carton of juice and one skim milk in front of them.

Meg took a look at Christine's face and nodded. "I know. Chicken patty again? What were they thinking?"

Christine searched the room. They were sitting on the second table on the right. A near empty table that would soon gather the group of not-so-unpopular-yet-not-so-popular kids in a few minutes. The table in the center of the room was round, and already crowded with jocks and cheerleaders and girls too pretty to sweat in a cheerleading uniform. The Corpse de Ballet sat together behind them, ever-inching closer to the popular table like willows bending to where the light pulled them. And to the left of the popular kids sat the Asians. She had no other way to describe them besides the fact that they were all attractive and spoke perfect english yet preferred to sit only with each other and speak in their native language. And behind them, the nerdtastic crew of kids whose own sense of pride separated them from the table of theatre nerd-tastics next to him. The nerds were in different shades of blue hoodies, each with perspective ivy league names printed on them obviously given to them by their older siblings but worn with the intention of announcing their future accomplishments. The table that they shared with the theatre nerds was rectangle and long. Two rectangles actually, and though the tables were pressed together tighter than California and Mexico, one could tell they thought themselves continents apart. Most of the theatre people were in chorus, or the stage crew. Christine liked the theatre boys. They were often offering to help in their sweet unassuming nature, and she liked them all. The girls…Emmy, Carlotta, and Luciana (the ringleaders), not so much. They all had an air of _Anne Hathaway_ that drove Christine insane.

Christine looked away.

"What's wrong with you?"

Christine scrunched her nose and dove for a quick excuse. "The patty. It's dry."

Meg picked up the bun and looked into the coarse meat. "But you haven't even eaten it yet."

"I can just tell," Christine snapped back the lid of her milk. "Gotta prepare myself for the desert in my mouth."

Meg's mind had wandered elsewhere. "You know what I can tell?"

"Hm?"

Her friend leaned in very wickedly. "I can tell your prom date is going to be tall, blonde, and handsome."

"Not tall, dark, and handsome? Uninterested." She reached for the ketchup and soaked her sandwich with it.

"He's going to be wearing a red football jersey, with the number 46, and his name is rhymes with…" Meg paused. "Owl."

"Who?"

"Exactly," Meg winked. "Whose staring at you right now."

Christine followed Meg's side glance and caught Raoul de Chagny's eyes for a brief moment before he burst into laughter at a punchline he obviously missed. But he was still looking at her.

It made her uncomfortable.

Christine bit into the bread. "I have nothing in common with De Chagny."

"The _Shag-Me. _And you have plenty in common. You're both so devastatingly gorgeous, it makes me sick. And you're an 'unlikely' couple, if you know what I mean. You're so smart and serious and he's so, well, _hot_." Meg was very serious.

"That's not unlikely." Christine yanked her hair-tie and tousled her waves in a very movie-like manner. Leaning forward, she propped her chin onto her hand and said pointedly, "That's _cliché._"

"What?"

"That's like every _She's All That, Mean Girls, Never Been Kissed _plot rolled into one. Boy meets pretty girl. Boy doesn't realize she's pretty. Boy realizes she pretty. Boy falls in love. They kiss. Agreed?"

Meg bit into her own sandwich and mumbled with her mouth full, "So what's you're idea of 'unlikely'? _That _guy?"

Christine's neck felt cold. She didn't have to turn around to know that Erik was walking by. No tray in hand, just his backpack. He went straight to the back of the cafeteria and sat down next to Nadir Khan, who always sat with the law-students but never conversed much. Nadir fit in, but he just never _fit. _His air was a bit debonair. It didn't below in this century.

"Don't even pretend to ask me who I mean by _that guy," _Meg wiped her mouth. "He's the only thing that this entire school's been talking about since first period. Who is he? Where's he from? Oh, right, and how ugly can he damn well be?"

"Ouch, that was nasty." Christine winced. "I thought you said maybe he was beautiful."

"Well, I'm an equal opportunity voter. Once I see his face, I'll vote hunk or tragedy." She held up her hands. "I know, I know. You're into tragedy."

"But not tragic."

Meg said nothing but her face said "Whatever."

Christine pulled out her schedule and browsed it again. 6th period: Chorus. Location: Music Room 505. 6th period. Chorus. 505. Location. 505. 6th Chorus –

"Hey, Angelface, you're going cross-eyed," Meg said. "For the fifth time, what's wrong?"

"I don't feel good," She lied. The truth is, she felt very good. She felt sick-to-her-stomach good. Ecstatic. And as much as she loved Meg, she had to be alone right now, to suppress her nerves, because she was going to play hooky for the first time in her life to meet up with a boy she doesn't even know. On her first day of school. In the basement. God, she felt like a bad cliché herself, but she was just _too damn excited._

She pulled out her Don Juan from her backpack and stood. "Hey baby-doll, I'm gonna go somewhere to read a while. My stomach is in knots."

"Fine. Leave me alone." Meg curled a lip. "I'll just sit like an open target for Buquet to plop down and run his leery eyes all up and down my business like a greasy old man trapped in a boy's body."

"Well, if you _insist,"_ Christine said. "And speaking of the devilishly handsome, leery old man–"

"HEY MEG." Joe Buquet plopped down next to Meg ever so closely so his overalls (overalls…) invaded her private space just a smidge and flashed a huge set of semi-white teeth. "Wanna eat each other?"

"What?" Meg glowered.

"I said, want to eat with each other?"

Joseph leaned in with his head and nearly pressed it against Meg's face. "But if you want to do the latter…"

He really did like her. He did. And he really was a nice boy. But something about Meg Giry just made him mad (in the good way). Maybe because she rejected him all the time. Yeah, that's it. Maybe because her hair reminded him of the color of his first pony. All tawny and sunburned and strawberry and shiny. Or maybe because she's smart but doesn't really feel the need to act it because she likes herself the way it is. Maybe–

"Sex-u-al. Harassment." Meg pushed his forehead back with a finger. "Give up, get up, and get out already."

"I tried," Joe said. "Every morning I wake up telling myself to lay off the Giry, and every night I go home heart-broken, but every lunch-time…"

Meg looked at him expectantly.

"I'm full of hope."

Meg blushed.

–––––––––––

Christine pulled herself into the empty corridors where some kids sat against their lockers playing video games or texting fiendishly to their "college" boyfriends. She was fairly alone. She leaned against her own locker and sank down, suddenly aware of the space (3 meters? 5 meters?) between her and the other people. She felt stiffled, almost claustrophobic, even though the place was familiar and she had no one to fear. She stood, opened her locker, and threw her backpack inside, still holding Don Juan in her hand. There must be somewhere she can go and read.

And then…the perfect idea.

_"A man's recollections always tend toward self-flattery, so I will not rely on my testimony alone and will instead write, as faithfully as possible, not only the events but the words themselves that were shouted during a duel or whispered during a passionate embrace. My ambition was nothing less than to free the King's chaste and lonely daughter from her imprisonment in the royal palace of the Alcázar – for a night. i knew that if I were caught, it would be my privilege as a noble to place my head on the executioner's block and avoid the shame of the gallows. A man's ambition, however, like his fate, is not always known to him in advance, and as I left the arms of the Widow Elvira, I had no hint of the danger that I would embrace last night."_

Trash, Christine said under her breath. How many times can you say _embrace _in one paragraph? Did she really buy this book for the red book cover? That's quite superficial of her. It wasn't even a _great _book cover. The typography was predictable. The wall she was leaning against now was cold, and hard, as she was in the corridors in front of the base-recital room, truly alone, and undisturbed to amuse herself with her grocery-book-store romance. She regretted, for a moment she wasn't reading a New York Magazine instead, but reluctantly continued on.

_Thirty-six years have passed since my birth, or more correctly since my mother left me–_

"You came."

_Of course I came, I'm the goddamn Don J–_

Christine's head snapped up, drawing the wall down between fantasy and reality so suddenly that she jumped.

"Ouch," she whispered.

Erik gazed down at her, looking infinitely tall and ultimately unreachable until he extended a hand and helped her up. He took the book from her hands (or rather, it slipped and he caught it) and flipped to the part she was reading. She followed him, blind and unyieldingly and without reason as he read aloud:

_"–A swaddled bundle, in the barn of the Convento de la Madre Sagrada. It is no doubt a sign of my advancing years that I have been persuaded for the first time in my life to consider how I will be remembered. Yet there is another desire that leads me to write in this diary. It is to pass on what I have learned about the Arts of Passion and of the holiness of womanhood…"_

Christine's ears swallowed his voice up like it were made of gumdrops. They tasted so good in her soul that she felt compelled to let him finish with his back to her, with his one hand that had slipped out from her grasp and was now reaching towards a page to flip and continue.

_"Since I have forsworn matrimony and have no heirs of my own blood, I must look to all who follow as my descendants and try to share with them what I have learned from the mown I have been privileged to know so well."_

He stopped, and revealed from his hand the key which she presumed would unlock the recital-room's door. He clicked it open effortlessly and they slipped in.

The room was not as dusty as she'd imagined. Light slipped in through two short windows that gave a sad view of the playing ground and a soccer ball that had been logged there semesters ago. The room was not as large as she remembered it either, but it gave a faint scent of murkiness that most basements do. Through the light, the dust looked blue, and the giant, black Yamaha piano sat against the wall.

Erik tossed the book absently into a chair and pushed the piano towards the center of the room.

She was disappointed. She wanted him to continue reading.

He pulled up the piano bench and sat down, pulling a handkerchief (handkerchief?) out of his pocket and wiped the keys.

"That book," he said steadily as he rubbed the side of a C-flat, "is shit."

Christine went beat red.

"But you know that," He smiled (or so his voice did), and he continued cleaning. "That's why you like it so much."

She didn't respond and placed her elbows atop the piano.

"Calm down, stranger," she said, in a voice so confident one would almost believe her. "You don't know what I like. But I'll tell you what I _don't_ like."

"Missing class on the first day of school?"

"Ding ding ding."

The bell rang.

"Saved by the bell," he said, definitely smiling.

"So, tell me what this is about," She was hesitant to move closer to him, and he sensed it, so he moved in a little.

"I'm quite shy," he said dryly. She coughed. "You can see that I don't fit in."

"Oh please," she said half-jokingly. "We're all freaks here."

"And," he said softly. "I'm the biggest one of all."

For some reason, his response irritated her. "Are you trying to frighten me or get to know me better?"

"The latter."

"Well, despite this unconventional, unheard-of, insane way of getting to know each other, I'm here, aren't I?" She leaned in a bit closer to him too. "Let's start with basics."

"Where are you from?" He asked.

"My father is from Sweden, my mother died when I was young. But I was born here. I guess I'm American. Guess is the main word. How old are you?"

"Seventeen. My father died before I was born. My mother was French, and I was born here. How old are you?"

"Sixteen. I play the piano and a bit of the violin. I'm a not-so-secret nerd. I like chemistry, and math, and pretty much every subject. My best friend is Meg. You've seen her. Her mother treats me like family. Where do you live?"

"I have my own apartment in the city. I live alone, with the exception of a butler-sort who takes care of certain things for me. I work for a living, by composing. And sometimes, building. What do you sing?"

"Pop, I guess. No, I lie. I'm not a natural pop-singer, though I find some songs beautiful. I'm meant to sing opera, but I'm not good enough for it. Haven't trained enough. I star in our musicals here though. This will be my second year auditioning for a lead at Opera High. Do you sing?"

"I can. If I want to. I've only written musicals, never performed in any. Not many roles call for disfigured seventeen year olds no matter how good the stage makeup. Why do you wear that oft-be-forgotten look on your face?"

"Because haven't you ever felt like there's something _more? _Like you have so much to give but there's no where to put it? There's something inside you waiting to be discovered, no – _needs _to be discovered and you're pissed at yourself because you're too pussy to show it?"

She bit the inside of her mouth, regretting her crass blurting and wishing she didn't feel compelled to ride on the end of his words.

"Every day," he said, and motioned for her to come around the piano.

She sat down beside him and he began to play. Beautiful, wonderful, glorious music flowed into the room, washing over her skin and tingling behind her ears. She felt suddenly very awake and peaceful, yet anxious for this moment to end right about never. He moved as he played, forward, sidewards, swaying gracefully and she leaned against his arm just enough not to disturb his perfect grace but enough to feel the heat traveling from his lean forearms to his shoulders, through his skin to to his shirt, to her sleeve and to her skin, and the goosebumps and hair follicles on her arm raised one by one in her minds eye, popping up to their awakening with delight.

Whatever this was, was not normal. Whatever this was, was that something else, that extra push, the gush of wind that blew her into oblivion. The type of movement inside her that opened a floodgate of rage and anger and animalistic _aliveness. _Whatever it was, this was _more._

She leaned her head against him when he stopped, and she listened to his gentle breathing. He was trying not to move, trying not to disturb the moment. But nothing he could have done would have tainted that moment. Because in that moment, they were perfect.

"Sing a little, Christine," he said.


	6. Chapter 6

Well, she just had the best voice Erik had bloody ever heard. He stared at this (blonde) girl, humming away to Andy Lord Weiber's "Doves Never Cry" and he could have sworn she sprouted wings and a halo appeared atop her (blonde) head.

Christine always knew that she had a good voice. In fact, Mr. Reyer always gave the solos to Carlotta because he was afraid that if he gave Christine one solo, she was going to be asked to sing them all. Asked by whom? Why, the principal, Mr. Leroux of course. The principal had a particular thing about talent. He admired it very much, and once he finds the best best thing, he'll stop at nothing until it's fully fleshed out. In every sense of the word.

Christine was singing the third verse of "Revel Rake the Rindmost" when Erik stopped her. He did so by placing one of his long, big, bony, beautiful fingers on her lips.

"Stop or I will have a heart attack," he said.

She looked at him, aghast.

"I'm serious," he said. "Where did you learn to sing like that? Have you been taking lessons?"

"Aside from chorus class…No," she stuttered. She didn't like to brag, but she couldn't help but feel a little bit of pride in how obviously talented she was. What girl could?

"That's incredible," he said. He slid his hands from the keyboard and rubbed them on his knees. He almost looked nervous. "Christine Daaé."

"That's my name Erik Le Mysterious, don't wear it out or I'll make you buy me a new one."

"Batman Returns. Nice."

_Most. Perfect. Boy. Ever._

"Thanks."

Did she just say that out loud? Her face felt even hotter.

"I assume you're auditioning for the musical this year."

Christine nodded. "I always do."

"And do you get the lead?"

She pressed her lips together in a sad, thin line. "No. I got chorus last year."

"For what show?"

"Guys and Dolls."

"I hope you didn't do it."

"No, I didn't." She sighed. "I was a sophomore. Seniority rules, you know. But I took it out on poor Mr. Reyer, as if it was his fault for not giving me Sarah. But it wasn't his fault. The director was Mr. Schumacher and he gave it to Emmy."

"And how was she?"

"She was…premature. But I've seen her audition tape. Total mini-mouse."

Erik laughed, his eyes twinkling with delight and devilish wonder behind the mask. "You're bitter."

"How can you tell?"

"Well what's the musical this year?"

"Into the Woods."

"Ah, Sondheim."

"I know."

"Respectable."

"I know. Poor Lord Weiber."

"Indeed," he nodded. "Sunset Boulevard is so damn good."

"Evita."

He made no movement but she felt him agreeing. "So, Christine. You have to be the witch this year, right?"

She looked at him with one Scarlet O'hara eyebrow raised very very high. "I'm Cinderella's range, don't you think?"

"Yes," he said quietly, "But you're also a strong mezzo. You just haven't learned how to use that part of your register yet. You can sing the witch's part perfectly if you practiced."

"But I'm much more comfortable–"

"Uncomfortable is good. Uncomfortable is challenging. Do you want to be pushed to be better, or stay in the same safe place forever?"

She thought about it, and she stared at him. She just met him. He doesn't know anything about her and he was pushing her emotions around, pushing her self-righteousness around like it was a toy, and it made her, well, very _uncomfortable._

"Well that's good," he said, breaking the silence. "You're considering it. And perhaps strangling me. But it's a start."

"I suppose you know the proper person to teach me how to sing the witch's part to perfection."

"Sure," he said smoothly. "But do you want to learn from him?"

"Well, it depends on what he wants in return. I'm just a poor student you know. Literally and figuratively."

"Your success would be my greatest reward. Your triumph is my triumph. It will be totally worth it, just by seeing you smile."

She beamed. She had no idea why he made her so happy or why he was doing this for her or what she trusted this debonair, strange, awkwardly tall, undeniably charming, irrationally hot, metaphysically disarming boy whose face she couldn't even SEE, but she was all in.

"Thanks, _teacher_."

"Anytime, _student."_ He placed his hands back on the ivory keys and launched into the first six bars of "Stay With Me."

"Now sing."

"I don't even know where to come in," she said, a little alarmed by the discord of the chords.

"You have to feel it." he said, replaying from the beginning. He leaned in a bit. "And it's here." His hand signaled the exact starting point. "I know you know the words."

She started to sing right then. There was no point in wasting time or witty banter. God sent her someone who was going to help her get the one thing she wanted more than anything in her little golden life, and she wasn't going to shy her way out of it.

She was already in too deep


	7. Chapter 7

"I have to go," she said, her face ever so close to his shoulder. She couldn't describe his smell, but she knew instinctively that it was one that drew her in, one that would linger in her far past today, tomorrow, next year…

He stopped playing, and dropped his hands to his knees. "So go," he prodded gently, almost encouraging her but not without a tinge of sadness.

Was she living in a twilight movie? Was she the "special," "unassuming," "diamond in the rough" girl that the vampiric masked boy was going to save from utter suburban boredom? Maybe. But she was no heroine, or damsel in distress for that matter. She was Christine fucken Daaé, and she had to get to class.

She stood and pulled her bookbag from the ground, throwing them over her shoulder and turning before she could stop herself from looking at him any longer. "I'll see you later?" she quipped, as casually as possible while still sounding a little shaky.

"Later," he said. From any other boy, it would sound fine, plebeian, fly-by-night. But he didn't say it like that. He said it like it was written, and that she would be seeing him because he wanted it and she wanted it to happen.

"Good lesson," she said. "I'll have to give you some lessons in sticking to your schedule next time." Was that too contrived? It was too late to matter.

She emerged from the basement and walked into the hallway, straight into Mr. Reyer.

"Oh…Well, look who we have here," Mr. Reyer's nasally, pretentious statement lingered in the air for a moment too long. "Ditching class on the first day of school are we?"

"I had terrible, terrible cramps," Mr. Reyer. "You know, from my period. It's my first day in more ways in one."

The professor's face turned bright pink from under his beard. Bright red actually. "Oh. Uh. Why are you coming from the basement and not the nurse's office?"

"The nurse told me to lie down in her office bed, and it just made me feel worse." She was surprised at how quickly her lie fed into itself. "So I started walking up and down on these steps. I read online that exercise is supposed to help." She smiled at him meekly, giving him the most sincere wide-eyed women's-problems-you-know look she could conjure up.

He pressed his thin lips together in discomfort and looked to have nodded his head. "Well, you're going to have to make copies of the Into the Woods songs we're learning today from one of your classmates. And a couple pieces of Handel."

She smiled brightly.

"Maybe ask Meg." He strode by her but not before saying very quickly, "But I have to say I'm disappointed with you Christine. You're lucky I know you and want you to audition for this year's musical; this was no way to make a first impression."

"I'm really sorry." She twisted her mouth in a childish manner, which seemed to work with her male professors, and hurried on.

"Girl, WTF," came the voice next to her. Meg had redone her hair into braids and spun them on both sides of her head in true Princess Leia style. "Where were you."

"I like your hair," Christine said, pulling the music from Meg's hands into her own and browsed it before handing it back.

"Where were you?" The question, was quite suspicious.

"In the basement taking a voice lesson from a boy."

Meg wacked Christine's head with her stack of music. It hurt a little too much. "Are you serious?"

Christine lifted an eyebrow.

"I am very upset about this."

Christine laughed.

"I am!" Meg smacked Christine again with her papers. "I am VERY UPSET YOU DID NOT INCLUDE ME."

"Ok, Giryhead, don't wet your panties."

"That's *my* dirty joke, and where the hell do you get on using that!" Meg pointed her to head. "Do you see this hair? It took me 20 minutes in the bathroom to do this 'easy-to-do' braid I saw in Glamour Mag, and that whole time, you were snogging somewhere with a guy. Oh, I'm sorry, I mean 'taking voice lessons.'"

"Who says snogging these days?"

"Jane Austin. And my hair looks fabulous. But who the hell is this boy, and where can I find one?"

"You know him actually."

"Full name or he doesn't exist."

"Erik Perrault, new kid on the block."

There was a moment of silence and then a very slow "Shut. The. Front. Door. Mr. Sexypants?"

Christine smiled. Actually, she grinned and her cheeks stretched wide to her ears and she felt elated at the feeling of saying his name. Is it possible to fall in love at first sight? It was possible to fall in lust at first sight…but she didn't want to get into his pants. Well, not yet. And it wasn't really about his pants at all. It was something, a quality, about him that made him that someone. That Heathcliff, or that Edward Scissorhands, or that *someone* who you will never forget, even when you're old and spindly and wrecked smoking a pipe on your front porch. Erik was that guy that you tell your grandchildren about. _When your grandma was young, like you…oh, she had some wild, crazy times. She loves your father but she'll never forget about this one boy…Oh, it makes your grandma blush just thinking about him. You should have seen him. He was…really something. _

"What do you have now?" Meg sliced her daydream suddenly.

"Chemistry."

"Oh, pun-ny coincidence," Meg smirked. "You've had enough of that today. Are you going to tell me more or what."

"Or what," Christine patted her friend's braided bun lightly and turned to go. "I promise I'll tell you more later."

Chemistry was a drag. She didn't hate it but she didn't love it. Plus, it was a bunch of new kids in her class. All she had to do is get through one more period of Math and she'd be walking home. She needed a walk, a very long _promenade_, as the French called it.

She knew no one in chemistry, and she was glad she didn't because she learned about "Oxytocin." She learned about two kind of male voles, or rodents, one of which mates for life, and the other type of vole in only interested in singular sexual experiences. And the crazy part is, these two different kinds of voles share more than 99% of common genes.

So what makes a rat a slutty one, and what makes a rat a hopeless romantic? The answer was oxytocin. The rat who is born naturally receptive to oxytocin prefers to be faithful and stay in love, while the other rat is born without those receptors. And the faithful vole will link their mate and the feeling of pleasure to remembering a physical personality: a smell.

She did not have to ask which one Erik was. She didn't really care. But she learned something about herself, and that was that she was a good rat. And she did not have to remind herself what smell lingered in front of her nose right now.

"So Ms. Sorelli," A kind, gentle voice said, "How can we tell which vole we are? And if we are born naturally unreceptive to xxytocin, what can be done to change that?"

"That's an excellent question, Mr. Chagny."

Christine did not notice Raoul was sitting a few seats behind her, diagonally to the right. He did not seem to notice her head whipping around at the sound of his voice, and lowered his hand as Ms. Sorelli explained:

"Scientists have done tests where they inject the non-receptive voles, more precisely, the montane vole, with oxytocin, and the results were all the same: negative."

"So you're saying there's nothing that can be done to change a montane rat's nature?" He leaned back confidently into his chair and tapped his eraser on his notebook.

"No, not in rats."

"And are we humans, like rats, or are rats like us, and only a branch of us?"

"What are you asking, Mr. Chagny."

"I mean to ask–are we different. Can we make a conscious choice whereas when a rat cannot, and if we can make that conscious choice, does that ultimately change the outcome of our integrity as human beings."

She had never heard Raoul de Chagny sound so intelligent before. She never knew he was intelligent. But as he spoke, something in his voice told her that he was being sincere, and that he was someone who did not take no for an answer. In other words, he was not a quitter.

"I'm saying," Ms. Sorelli said thoughtfully, "that it is within a montane voles _nature _to go from one female rat to the next, and that chemicals cannot change that."

"But what if we invented a chemical to aid the oxytocin that failed? What if all it needed was a bridge drug?"

"If that's the case, then we just haven't discovered that bridge drug yet. And to answer your question; rats are like humans, and humans are like rats, but they are not mutually exclusive. We may have rat-like qualities, but we are not all rats."

"I agree," he leaned forward and suddenly his gaze locked with Christine's. "We are not all rats."

Something inside her churned. No, pinched. Not in a bad way, but it pinched her deeply enough that Christine gave an audible gasp.

"Christine, did you want to say something?"

She spun around and shook her head at Ms. Sorelli. "Uh–no. Sorry. Just…Cramps." Gosh, she used that excuse twice already.

A few kids snickered but she was sure Raoul did not. She felt a heat on the back of her neck as if she was being stared at, and she knew who was doing the staring.

"Then there are male rats that are so eager to fall in love that they prematurely release the dopamine and norepinephrine that announce to their brains that they're in love; and this is not usually sustainable, due to the male rats _visual _nature."

It was not Raoul's voice, but Erik's. And Christine felt utterly mortified, petrified, and elated that he was sitting in the back of the classroom, silent as a mouse until just the right moment, where a word from him would ultimately disturb any kind of peace.

"And these rats are merely floating in the attraction stage, and addicted to the feeling of being love." The voice was matter of fact, but not forceful or loud. It just demanded attention. "To answer Mr. Chagny's question, the 'bridge drug' already exists. Oxytocin and vasopressin block the flow of dopamine and norepinephrine, and that's why passionate love tends to fade when commitment grows. It's a counter chemical that are needed to give eternal life to Oxytocin. And there is no such counter chemical. Integrity has little to do with it. In a way, humans are not mutually exclusive to rats. Rats choose the rat they want, and no sheer act of will can force one rat to be with the other, at least not happily, and humans are the same way. No matter how 'learned' the rat's dedication to fight against their nature."

Ms. Sorelli, who was obviously taken aback by the new student's words, stood with her arms crossed. She looked confused, and a bit angry at herself for not being able to provide a quick comeback. She did not like it when things at too heavy-handed in class, not when it made her look bad. So she stood, tapping her pointer finger against her opposite elbow and chewing on the side of her mouth until Christine excused herself, muttering she had to "go to the bathroom to take care of her cramps," this time to absolute no reaction from the class.

As she stepped into the hallway, her head felt heavy and she was beginning to feel faint. In a way, she was experiencing a sort of déja-vu, but she wasn't sure which part of the last 15 minutes she might have lived in her past life. She just felt that she could not breathe and that she had been here, in this place, emotionally and spiritually before. She didn't know what to make of it. She just hoped quite innocently that the ending was a good one.

"Rats," she muttered and headed back into the classroom.


	8. Chapter 8

"One plus one equals three," Christine said.

Someone beside her snorted. She looked up to see Carla Giudicelli sneering at her in her usual, loathsome, oafish manner.

"What did you say?" Carlotta said, smiling.

"One plus one equals three," Christine said flatly. "Can you hear me now?"

Carla scoffed. "Girl, we're in trigonometry, not basic pre-kindergarden. Why are you saying dumb shit like that?"

"Why are you being a bitch?"

A couple of kids besides them stopped talking. They were sitting in Trigonometry class, and the teacher was writing something on the board, but no one in class was paying attention. Would it hurt for some people to just LEARN in this damn school?

"Class, is there a problem?" Mr. Jackman said. The professor put down his chalk and turned to them, placing his hands on his hips and frowning. Mr. Jackman was what one would call "classically and devastatingly handsome." He looked like a movie star. But he, oddly, did not make the choice to go into voice, which was his true passion (this he confessed to Le Matin, the school paper), and chose instead to teach math. Such a shame because he would have such a fantastic performer. His deep, bravado-y voice was built for it. "I'm teaching sines and consines and instead we're going on a tangent."

On the other hand, his corny jokes weren't really that charming.

"Catfight, Mr. Jackman!" Joe Buquet laughed and pointed his chin at the two ladies who were still locked in a staredown. "Claws and cuss words and everything."

Mr. Jackman walked over to Carlotta, at which point she blushed crimson at the sight of him (everyone knew Piagni made her angry and Jackman made her hot).

"Carlotta?" Mr. Jackman prodded, "What's going on?"

Carlotta, who could have easily reported that Christine called her a royal "bitch," surprisingly shrank back and shook her head. "Nothing, Mr. Jackman. Nothing that we can't take aside *after* class."

It must have been Carla trying to make herself look angelic, for if it wasn't due to the fact that saying the "B" word might make her look crass, she would have spilled her guts. She definitely wouldn't be this withholding in Firmin's class.

"Ms. Daaé? You ok?"

Christine smiled slightly at him. "I cosine with Carlotta, Mr. Jackman."

Apparently pleased with Christine's own corny pun, Mr. Jackman resigned and went back to the board.

"Slut," Carla whispered as soon as he was out of earshot.

"Fatass," Christine whispered back, and felt a sudden sense of elation as Carla grappled for a comeback. Carla wasn't fat. Carla was just big-boned–literally. In fact she was quite handsomely pretty and robust and many a mousy boy in school seemed to find her very attractive. But still, she was a bully and that made her ugly. At least to Christine.

"You know in trigonometry, one plus one does equal three," a voice said beside her. It was Nadir Khan, the quiet boy who always sat alone in the lunchroom. He looked at her sweetly, as if he had felt quite proud of something he'd just stumbled upon.

"Oh?" Christine put her head on her hand and coxed her head at him.

"Well in a triangle, right," Nadir began to stutter once he realized she was putting her full attention on him, "In a triangle there's three sides. So one point, plus another point, must be balanced by a third point. So that makes three. It's actually three points make three. But depends on how you word it. You can argue your way out of anything if you've got a good lawyer."

"Then it looks like I have a good lawyer," Christine winked at him, and he blushed. She was teasing him, but not in a flirtatious way. In fact, it was the most naturally friendly she's been all day. Nadir was always so mysterious, and not in a sexy way. No one knew where he was from or what he did after school, and no one cared to know. That's what was so endearing about him. He wasn't full of it.

"I'm Nadir."

"I know."

"Oh!" He looked pleased. "So…I saw you talking to the new boy today."

"Yes, I was."

"Did you find him curious?"

"Didn't you?"

"Yes, but he did not seem curious about me." Nadir said, drawing out his last words. "As he seemed curious about some _other people."_

"And you seem more curious about him than some other people."

"Well–"

"Am I right?"

"Um, yes." Nadir squirmed in his seat a little. "It's just that there's never been anyone in this school like that before."

"Like what."

"Like, disguised."

"Wrong."

"What?"

"Wrong." Christine pulled out her notebook and started copying from the board. As she did this, spoke from the side of her mouth. "Almost everyone in this school is wearing a disguise."

"Well, I mean…Yeah," Nadir shrugged. "But you know what I mean."

"Oh, you mean he looks different and that interests you."

"Doesn't it interest _you?"_

"No more than you interest me."

"Well, I'm not wearing a mask."

"You're also always sitting alone in the cafeteria, and you're the only minority in the entire school. And I bet more than anyone else, _you _notice that."

Christine felt the boy beside her get very silent. He wasn't angry; she could sense that, but he seemed to be suddenly pensive. Perhaps he'd never noticed that he was different. Perhaps he liked sitting alone. Perhaps she was being a huge asshole because Carlotta Giudicelli and just called her a "freak" and she'd called Carla a "fatass" and her meanstreak was suddenly breaking out at 16. Or maybe Nadir never realized that someone else realized how lonely he was. But he was quiet, staring down at his books for a long time.

They did not speak for the rest of the class, but when the bell rang, Christine turned to him and put her hand on his elbow and squeezed.

"I'm really sorry I was an asshole."

He smiled back at her and patted her hand in an almost paternal manner. "I can see why he likes you."

Christine suddenly felt herself clench, and she stood and ran out of the class before the poor boy could explain himself.

She was ready for today to be over, yet she wanted it to never end. She still felt his presence around her. It was as if she'd been charmed or perhaps bitten by a spell, where the halls felt like clouds and the lockers smelled of roses and tea, not the sweaty jerseys and sneakers that boys toss so carelessly into them. She wanted to go find him, to follow him to where he lived, and she wanted to know all about him. She was unhealthily throwing herself into this fantasy of who he was and who he could be, and she knew, her head still intact, that it was not alright.

She didn't stop by Meg's locker to ask her to walk home together. They didn't live close to each other anyway, but this would be against their annual tradition of walking home together the first day. She opened the school doors and was shocked at the heat of the sunlight against her face. It was brilliantly beautiful, and warm. She took off her jacket and tied it around her waist, not caring that it was so 1996 and she didn't look cute like that anymore. She pulled her hair to a tight ponytail at the top of her head and thought: damn. It's hot for September.

Her bookbag was heavy. She had six text books she had to go home and cover. That was actually her favorite part of the first day of school: cutting apart grocery bags and covering her books in brown paper. Some kids bought fancy pre-cut book covers. What was the fun in that? Christine liked the organic smell of a brown paper bag. She liked the way a paintbrush stroke looked on them. She always drew the names of each subject in her own rushed calligraphy: Math, Science, History. Etcetera etcetera etcetera.

She would go home, pull out some salmon from the freezer, and make a mean grilled fish for her and her pops. He hated asparagus but she was going to make him eat it anyway. She make him some hollandaise sauce just to make it taste better. She'll practice some piano before he gets home, while the fish is baking. She'll leave the TV on, maybe, and watch some Law & Order SVU. Mariska Hargitay _is _the bomb. She'll hum Into the Woods to herself as she chops up the vegetables and throws them into the chicken stock. She knew how to live, just her and her pops, quaintly, quietly, honorably.

She was going to do all this, if the black car hadn't pulled up behind her and the window hadn't rolled down and a voice hadn't called out her name.

"Christine Daaé, can I give you a ride?"

The voice was unfamiliar so she did not turn around. "I don't take rides from strangers," she said, and walked even quicker. The car followed her silently down the block, and she began to sweat even more.

"You shouldn't be walking alone. Let me give you a ride."

Really? In broad daylight? She did the only sensible thing, and turned around and ran upwards towards the hill. If he was going to try to catch her, he would have to be amazing at driving backwards.

In the corner of her eye, she could see that he _wasn't _a stranger. It was Phillippe de Chagny, Raoul's older brother. But there was something off about him, something troubling his eyes that she did not like. And so she ran faster and faster, her eyes blurring from the sun, straight into the brick chest of a boy with an all-too-familiar smell.

He looked at her baffled, yet bent down to pick up all her books, which had flown out of her bookrack and spilled in a rainbow banner on the ground.

"You alright?"

Christine looked at at the masked boy and then down at herself and back at him again. "I–I lost my jacket."

"Who were you running from?"

She felt his eyes narrow behind his mask.

"Should I lie?"

"No," he said.

"Phillippe de Chagny."

"Why?"

She shrugged. "I didn't feel good about it."

"Good about what?"

"Getting into his car."

"He asked you to get into his car?"

"Yeah."

"Did he threaten you?"

"I have to find my jacket."

"Did he try to hurt you?"

She pulled her bookbag from him and put it back over her shoulders again. "No." She said simply. "He had hurtful eyes."

"I'll walk you home then."

"Where's your home?"

"On Kinkaid Ave. My Chauffer is coming to pick me up now, but I'll tell him to wait. If you don't feel comfortable letting me give you a ride, then at least let me walk you home."

She squinted at him through the heat in her eyes and looked back down that sunny hill that now felt ominous and lonely. Would it be a wise decision to let him walk her home? What would Mariska Hargitay do? Walk home alone and potentially pass the black Lincoln again, or be escorted down the street by a boy she'd just met who felt physically threatening yet emotionally safe?

"I'm going to ask one of the teachers for a ride," she said finally, and smiled at him. "Thank you though."

She touched his arm, just as she did before their voice lesson, and felt him tense underneath his shirt sleeve. She felt the warmth in his gaze and the restraint in his shoulders from wanting to reach forward and wrap his arms around her. Strangely enough, she wasn't sure whether he'd meant to protect her or to protect himself.

"Alright, Christine." He slipped a piece of paper into her hand placed his long, beautiful hands back into his pockets. "Just let me know that you've gotten home safely."

She did not unclench that scrap of paper until she'd locked the door behind her bedroom and fell backwards onto her bed in exhaustion. There, in barely legible red pen, was his number.


	9. Chapter 9

Erik slid through the iron wings of his front gates. The automatic lock clicked behind him as he took long strides, letting his bookbag slide off his right shoulder and into his hand. He didn't bring any of his books home, mostly because all his reading assignments were books he'd already read on subjects he already knew. Was it too arrogant to assume that he didn't need to study? Maybe. As least, it was true.

There was only one thing he needed to study.

He entered the passcode into the security box on his house and the door became ajar to a plane of blackness. Silence. He entered, placing his bookbag on one of the chairs of his dining room table in the darkness without turning to look at which way he was going and walked into the kitchen. Picked a glass from the cupboard, turned on the tap water, filled it to the brim, and drank. Listened to the rolling sound of his swallows. Stared at the blinds that allowed stripes of sunlight to enter. Noted there were 65 slits and only 33 reached the counter. Finished his drink. Thought about her.

The glass was back on the counter. His hand grasped it, not too tightly, no without restraint. His other hand gripped onto the pen which had stuck out of his pocket. It was the pen he used to write down his number.

Erik didn't have crushes. Erik had no interest in girls. Erik cared about music, learning, though not particularly, school, and becoming someone, something great. Erik had a purpose and it was to be a master builder, a creator of beautiful things. Erik was always on a narrow but one way path to the greatest invention. His road was wide enough for one person. It wrapped along the tallest mountain, and anything, anyone next to him would surely fall. And it was a long way down.

At least, that's the way he always saw things. He wasn't like anyone he knew. Most boys play a sport, smoke weed, loiter in front of 711, take their girlfriends shopping at malls, buy themselves video games with their parents' money. Most boys are sitting at internet cafés playing Counterstrike with a kid from their class they've never even spoken to, who happens to be sitting on the other side of the screen. They ask a college kid of their older brothers to buy them beer. They throw a party in their house and post pictures of their diesel breakfasts on Facebook. They spraypaint their skateboards, or ask a struggling artist to do it for them. They use words like "Dude," "Bro," "Man," "sweet" and "Fuck" in adjective, noun, verb and pronoun form. They share porn. They want to "bang" so and so. They think their moms are annoying and their dad's are scary. Most of them.

He touched his face. Silk. Smooth, almost like it wasn't there. Second skin. Soft. His fingers slithered to his chin where the cloth met his flesh. Yes, still sleek to the touch. _It's fixable you know. You can always get that thing repaired. It doesn't have to be the mask or nothing._

Shut up.

_Fine. Enjoy brooding in your angst-y solitude._

He rolled the pen between his thumb and forefinger. Even if he had the face of a greek god, he'd still be who he was. He'd still enjoy the same things, despise the other things, and be indifferent to most things. His mother wouldn't care because she was dead. His father wouldn't know because he'd died before Erik's mother. So, then, what was the point? Besides feeling like the most overstated person most of the year and the most underdressed person on Halloween, he really had nothing to complain about. At least this way, people left him alone.

Something was buzzing.

He walked into the dining room and his cell light through the front pocket of his bag. _Zip_. Unknown number.

"Hello?"

He missed. The person had already hung up. Maybe they'll call back again.

Buzz.

"Hello?"

Pause. From the silence, he knew it was her. It was as if an invisible tension chord was strung from his mouthpiece to hers, and ever time she breathed, the string vibrated. Except, she was holding her breath so tightly that the string became so wound up that he thought it might snap.

"Christine."

"Hi…" She breathed. The string relaxed.

"Hi." He stood in the darkness, his hands in his pocket, his posture straight, his eyes looking at nothing on the white wall. "How are you?"

"I'm ok," she said, rather too nonchalantly. He could sense her smiling on the other end. It's that game that girls play when their nervous. You know, pretending to be not nervous at all. But Erik did not know that.

"I was worried after bumping into you like that." _I wanted to make sure you got home safely._

"Oh, no worries. I'm totally fine." _My salmon is burnt and I can't stop thinking about you._

"Good."

"Yeah…"

The string was tight again.

"So…" Chrstine bit her lip, "I'm glad you gave me your number because I really wanted to talk to you." Was that too forward?

"About?" He seemed unperturbed by it if it was.

"About, you know…Today. I mean, how did you know so many things? Why did you follow me? Where are you _from?"_

He laughed. Her ear twitched. She liked the sound of it.

"Well, I _don't," _he began, "I know nothing."

"Oh please," she said. "Nothing means everything then."

"And I didn't follow you."

"Except to more than half my classes and at the top of the hill this afternoon?"

"You ran into _me, _actually." His said flatly.

She wrinkled her nose. "I'm not phrasing things right. But you know what I mean."

"Not exactly Miss Daaé or else I'd give you the answers you want."

"Well maybe you don't want to give them to me."

"And what purpose would that serve?"

"The purpose of being mysterious."

He laughed again, and this time she enjoyed the sound. "That's ridiculous. Why would I want to be mysterious when I've invited you to call me and I've helped you practice for the musical auditions on the first day we met? If I were serving my purpose, I'd ignore you completely."

"You obviously don't understand that the point of being mysterious is by just dangling enough bait to get the fish to swim for the hook, and then pulling back just in time so that the fish doesn't see that it's a real worm!"

"I am not dangling worms, Christine Daaé."

"And I am not a fish."

"I know."

"So don't expect me to behave like one."

"Are you behaving like one now?"

She thought for a moment and furrowed her brow. Actually. She was doing exactly what fishes do…

"Oh wait–" He said suddenly, "As you contemplate whether you should admit that you're behaving like fish, why don't we supplant the wormy bait with a glass slipper. Does that sound better?"

"I…guess so. I guess I am behaving like a fish."

He smiled.

"AND–" She said suddenly, "You _are _trying to be mysterious."

"I'm not," he said seriously. "I'd invite you into my home right now."

The conversation had gotten intense too quickly and she was silent and he was silent and they both just held their breaths on their ends of the phone and waited for the string to snap.

Finally, she gave. "I'll come see you."

_Snap._

"And I don't know _why." _She placed her hand over her eyes and smiled at herself as discreetly as possible, trying to hide the emotion from him. "I must be some blind-ass fish."

He smiled too and didn't try to hide it. "I'll text you my address. You can come after school tomorrow. Or...whenever you want."

"And you promise you won't go all Patrick Bateman on me? Because we just met? Because I don't know you at all and I feel somehow compelled to know you and this is completely irrational and irresponsible of me, but I'm going to do it anyway. And if you're lying to me I'll never forgive you, but Karma will come back around and get you one way or another?"

"Amidst those high, albeit endearing, threats, yes. I promise I won't put you in danger, and should you fear or doubt me at any moment, you can leave and never see me again."

"Oh good. Because you know, man with the glass slipper, I may be a curious blind fish, but I'm probably the one who's fucking crazy."

"Thanks for the warning."

This time, she laughed. He liked the sound of it, too.


	10. Chapter 10

The next day was horrid. It was horrid in the sense of the word where one feels each minute clawing at her soul because she couldn't WAIT for the day to be over.

And so the day lasts forever.

Her schedule was the opposite of the day before. Erik was there, standing behind her. Mr. Reyer flailed his arms wilding while conducting them (muchos serioso in an completely unserious room of giggling teens), and Christine sang monotonously. She felt Erik's eyes in the back of her head and his breath on her neck, though he was too far to actually breath on her, perse. But she imagined him close just the same.

Lunch with Meg was on reverse as well. Meg blushed. Buquet showed up. Teased Meg. Meg left the table to get a dry chicken patty. Meg never came back. She was sitting at a different table trying to escape Joe Buquet but he just followed her there instead. Christine flipped through her Don Juan. She lost interest in it already. Raoul walked past her, looked down at her. She grinned at herself a little (discreetly). There was a bit of chemistry there; she couldn't deny it. He was very, well, bright and happy. And his presence was exciting and calming at the same time.

She spent English class doing her best avoiding Erik. Something told her that she should be saving the best for tonight. Not that she was really expecting anything crazy tonight. Well, she was so excited for tonight that she couldn't really think. She was afraid. Afraid of what could be possibly the best night of her life.

She was standing in front his house. A bright house, she noted. much brighter than she would have imagined for a boy like Erik. It had an iron gate. Polished, stately, locked by an invisible chain as there was no intercom or keyhole to the naked eye. The house looked more like a castle from a grimm's fairy tale book. It was a marriage between a stately cottage and a mason. Vines all around. Green, well cared-for vines, with little white blooms shooting from each branch. The vines crept to the windows and ended at the red scalloped roof. Well, not a true red, but a blood-tangerine. It always irritated her when people called things (such as hair) "red" when in a pantone book it was actually orange. She bet Erik would understand.

The gates opened. There was an old man standing at the door. He had grey hair that reached his hunched shoulders and a a wrinkled face that looked somewhere between angry and kind. She could not decide. He was not large in stature but she could not seem to see past him. It was just an old man in the doorway, watching her with dark eyes as she slowly made her way towards him.

"I hope I'm at the right house," she said when she was within hearing distance. "I'm here for Erik."

The man did not say anything, but his lip twitched at the corners for a second. His eyes followed her as she reached the front steps. She did not look away, for something told her he'd respect her less if she did.

"I'm Christine," She said.

"I know who you are."

His voice surprised her. It was not haggard and harsh, the way his face and hair and skin appeared. It was muffled and soft. There was a sense of calm in his tone that encouraged her to take a step forward. And when she did, he moved aside and the doorway behind him seemed to light up. She took it as an invitation to go in.

When she passed him she could smell the herbal tinge that came from his old-fashioned clothes. He smelled like an experiment gone awry. A fire dying in the woods. Yet she was unafraid and found it refreshing in contrast to the eau de perfumes and sweaty jerseys of her previous male encounters. Not that she's had any. She's imagining.

"The master is at work," the old man said, as she walked by. She felt him sniffing her too, albeit discreetly. His bony finger pointed towards the kitchen, which was also lit. She could see the edge of a dining room table. Brown wood. An empty candelabra sitting at the left corner like a beauty and the beast screenshot. "But he is expecting you."

Sure enough, Erik was sitting at the other end of the dining room table, scribbling something into a notepad the size of his upper torso. He did not acknowledge her until she was right next to him, under she placed her hand onto the table and found his hand suddenly coming down on hers and grasping her fingers within his clutch.

"You came," he said, without looking up.

"I always do what I say I would."

His grasp tightened around her hand and he put his pen down. She could see now that he was not writing, that he was in fact composing. Red calligraphic ink flew over the music sheet like wildfire. It was very beautiful. And very odd. Like him.

"What are you writing?"

"A story," he said and pushed the music onto the table. He raised his head and looked up into her eyes and they seemed violet and different than before. She saw past their color and into his soul and she saw the shadow of a woman who was weeping over a man who had passed. She saw a babe with a handkerchief over its head and a few drops of blood staining the edge of the handkerchief. She saw the basket where the babe lie burst into flames, and at that moment he pulled her hand from under his and her gaze way from his eyes. The light in the room, the source of which was unknown, began to flicker. His eyes were yellow once again.

He stood slowly and seemed to tower over her. She did not remember him being so tall or frightening for that matter. But she held her ground. "What am I doing here?" She thought.

"I don't know, Christine," he said. "You tell me."

Had she said that out loud?

"I suppose you're going to suck my blood now," she deadpanned, half-serious. She felt him smile underneath the mask and she smiled back. "No, really, Erik. Do I know you from somewhere? Why do I feel some sort of connection between us even though we've never met?"

"Have we?"

"Have we what?"

"Never met?"

She lifted her hands and placed them around his face. It was strange, how he trusted her to do this without removing his mask, but he let her meld her little fingers around his hallow cheeks as she lifted herself on her toes and placed her lips very close to his ear. "You tell me," she whispered.

When he looked into her eyes he could see a soul inside as well. Blue. It was blue and clear as water at first, but it behind it was a wilderness of grey, dark and stormy and surrounded by fog. He could see the clouds clearly but he could not see clearly through the cloud. There were four-legged animals chasing two-legged ones and their panting breaths were intertwined in the howl of the trees, and beyond that he could hear nothing. But he could feel, and what he felt, was panic.

She dropped her hands and he took a step back. Yes, they were connected, but he was unsure of how, and for the first time, it frightened him.

"Fate links thee to me forever and a day," he said.


End file.
